Ever, ever, ever, ever
by caynaise
Summary: The day it all comes to an end. For Rinko, at least.


**So uh. The news about Satomi Akesaka leaving really got to me bc Rinko's one of my faves and I love her voice so much? Somehow my feelings created this wreck and I am sorry. Rinko baby girl I want you to stay a part of Roselia and be happy I truly do. None of this even makes sense without external context, it's super vague bc how do you plot, I only know how to write angst for the sake of angst okay**

 **So yeah this is just me saying an early goodbye to Akeshan's amazing Rinko. All the best and take care Akeshan!**

* * *

There wasn't much music to be made in Studio 4 that day. But if any of the live house staff walked past the door and peered in through the soundproof glass pane, they didn't stop to wonder why the room's occupants, back in their hometown after a successful tour, had reserved several hours of private rehearsal time only to sit staring at the floor, occasionally fiddling with various knobs and cords and picking absently at strings. You didn't question Roselia's methods. Whatever mysterious rituals went on behind the scenes obviously worked. In a mere year after their drummer had graduated from high school, this group of young women had pushed to the front of the music scene, rallying hordes of screaming fans everywhere they went all while staying tactfully aloof enough to be out of their reach. They'd churned out hit after hit ever since. People often wondered if they were truly human. Not that they ever let you get close enough to see what was under all the feathers and stiff lace and clashing, shimmering metal. Or the thick black liners and white powder that, somewhere along the line, they had started obscuring their faces with.

Approaching them felt improper, intrusive, like taking apart a porcelain doll or rough-handling a newborn animal. Even people who wouldn't have cared under different circumstances were humbled to shame and self-reflection at the sight of them on stage, so uncanny were the girls' masks.

But the glamorous facade was down now, here where everyone knew them, here where they didn't have to pretend. Inside the studio, they looked perfectly ordinary, dressed in oversized jumpers and jeans, blouses and skirts and stockings. Save for the fact that none of them were making eye contact.

Sayo ran an idle thumb across her guitar strings at regular intervals, her left hand ghosting over the fingerboard entirely of its own accord. The guitar wasn't plugged in, the chords flat and muted and accompanied by a harsh metallic buzz, clashing with Lisa's picking at her own open strings. Every now and then both of them would chance to strike harmonious notes.

The fifth time this happened, Rinko's hand jerked at her side. Ako saw, startled, and they looked at each other.

"I—"

The strumming and picking snapped into silence.

"I . . . I don't want this to end," Rinko said. "I don't. I . . ."

"Rinko." Yukina had stood facing the opposite wall this whole time, twisting a lock of hair around and around her finger. She still hadn't turned around. "It doesn't matter what you want."

"But—" Even as the protest left her mouth, Rinko deflated. Her arms dropped to her sides. No use resisting when the enemy was beyond all of their control.

"Okay. Not helping, Yukina," said Lisa. Rinko recognised the look in her eyes, at once stern and gentle. Lisa thought Yukina had hurt her; her concern was palpable as her gaze swept over Rinko. "You've got no choice, right? Don't worry about us. We'll sort it out."

Maybe she was paranoia personified, but telling Rinko not to worry usually had the opposite effect. The very fact that it needed to be said only confirmed that there _was_ something to worry about.

And worry she did. But her desires were as selfish as anyone's—she wasn't some sort of martyr, or a delicate flower in danger of being trampled. No. She was just a girl who wanted to play music. Nothing special, worth no more than a single-use concert ticket to be tossed on the street after its value had expired.

Was it wrong that being in this band meant the world to her?

It was no use dwelling on the question. Pretty, superficial things like fame didn't come in infinite supply, and hers was just running out a little sooner.

* * *

They packed up, and Ako squeezed the wind out of her and wailed like she was a child again. Rinko smiled, smiled through it all, even when Yukina finally looked her in the eye and it dawned on Rinko that she was trying not to care while caring too much; even when Sayo prised Ako off her with uncharacteristic gentleness and reminded them all that it was time to go.

Only after she had bade them goodnight did she let the smile slip. She slotted her key in the door, went up to her room where her piano and solitude awaited, sat on the stool in the dark and lifted the lid, running her fingers across the cool keys. She spread her left hand over an octave. Her right thumb found an A. The sombre opening chords of the 'Hammerklavier' sonata's slow movement rang out, quiet, momentous—a heavy raindrop suspended on the edge of an autumn leaf.

Beside the stand, her phone buzzed, the screen lighting up with a message from Ako: _Wanna play? Or talk? Or anything?_

She didn't take her hands off the keys, and for the first time in a long time, let the screen go dark.

She still remembered the day she'd told Ako she could play for the band. The offer had been wild, spontaneous, and she'd never imagined it would burst out of her the way it did. But it did. All of a sudden music wasn't just about walking onstage in a cold recital hall and playing alone anymore. She loved them both, these seemingly irreconcilable worlds—to lose one now was unthinkable.

Would she be alone again?

Didn't she _like_ being alone?

Beethoven's melodies soared, and she thought of him, the tortured artist who had written the most sublime music even when all hope was lost. The notes began to clutter and her deft fingers faltered. She let them go limp. Leaning her arm on the stand, she covered her eyes with her sleeve and sobbed.

Afterwards she lay on her bed and pulled up Ako's text.

 _Sorry, Ako-chan. Let's play tomorrow, yeah?_

* * *

It wasn't quite over yet. Of course the fans had to say farewell to the shy, sweet girl who hid at the back of the stage and spoke little but cast up a storm with her magic hands. But that would be the last time, and it came ever closer, so quickly it was almost rude. Didn't time know of propriety? Didn't it know better than to rub at a graze repeatedly before it had a chance to scab over?

The evening came, and Rinko sat blinking at her pale reflection in her dressing room mirror, smoothing the crumpled ruffles lining her sleeves. They'd eschewed the heavy makeup, had settled for the laced bodices and layered skirts of their fledgling days without any excessive adornment.

They looked pretty, which Rinko liked. But over the years they'd learned that prettiness was vulnerability.

"Rinko," said Sayo.

That called to mind the first time the other girl had addressed her with familiarity and a smile pulled at her cheeks, a little tight, like a shirt she'd grown out of. "Yes?"

Sayo's response was less forthright than Rinko was accustomed to. The words caught on a jerking fishhook, holding out against the current. "I don't know why I'm saying this, but . . . I used to think we were in this to prove ourselves." She half-turned in her swivel chair, no doubt forgetting for a moment that the mirror in front of her reflected her every movement back at the room. "And we did. We did, but I didn't care anymore. Because Roselia is more than just music. It's greater. And without any one of us nothing would work the same way."

"So you're staying with us, Rinko," Lisa chimed in, grabbing both of them around the neck and pulling their chairs close. "Doesn't matter how. Music or no music, we're Roselia. Always."

Never one to miss a group hug, Ako flew at them, curls loose in a fierce cascade. "Always, Rin-rin, always always _always_ no matterwhat, and don't you let me hear or—the Dark Forces forbid— _sense_ you doubting that, and oh believe me I'll know," and Rinko stumbled under their weight, fingers latching on to the edge of the dressing table, and her chair squealed in panic and her cheeks still twinged but there was nothing in the world she wouldn't give to freeze this moment, picture-perfect in her mind forever.

Picture-perfect save for one thing.

Then it was time to go on stage and their leather boots clacked against vinyl as they let go of each other's hands and walked into the flaring lights, hot and white and sharp as diamonds.

The crowd had never seen Roselia play like this before. Never. They had always been clean and focused, magnetic but controlled. Perfectly tailored at the seams and careful to shield their wax wings from the glare of the sun. But now they'd shaken off all restraint, electricity crackling and exploding from the stage, desperation unchecked. With terrifying abandon, they shot for the sky with no thought of how far they had to fall. Every cry of the guitar, every resounding echo, every drumbeat that ripped through the floor beneath the audience's feet struck fear and awe into their hearts, and they watched, transfixed, utterly powerless under Roselia's spell.

The last song on the set list was 'Neo-Aspect,' which dated back to their school years. In the back, Rinko kept her feet firmly planted and shook her sweaty hair out of her eyes, long skirts hiding her shaking legs. She had this. Ako. Lisa. Sayo. Her eyes darted to each of them in turn and they met her gaze with flushed, almost feverish joy.

Of Yukina she wasn't so sure. Rinko watched the lights flash off her silver hairpiece, watched her reach out to the crowd as if her life depended on it, reeling them in, making them stay, making them _listen,_ _or else_. Already her voice had wavered and veered sharp on several notes, and Rinko could tell most of it wasn't fatigue. She powered through, though, taking it all in stride as only she could.

Until the chorus. The first high D sharp came out like a ragged scream and then the control had slipped through her fingers and from there she had to fight for every note. She must have known she couldn't force the next E out and flipped uncharacteristically into falsetto, trailing off into a thin severed thread. It was by all means a technical disaster, but that had never mattered less. Rinko felt the impact of the words as she never cause to feel before and the raw earnestness shook her to her very core.

 _I'm here . . . I hold you . . . prouder . . . braver . . . brighter . . ._

Yukina was singing for her, and she knew it.

And it was time to return the favour.

Yukina cut off her last note before she could choke on it and Rinko let her churning emotions go, unleashing them with a fury on the keyboard. Black and white blurred and bled into one another through the tears but her hands knew where to go. Yukina had swung around in shock the moment she started to improvise, that much she could see.

With one hand pounding at the keys in variations of a repeating pattern, she raised the other and made a subtle downward gesture. She had no doubt the others would follow her—the product of hours and hours of sweat and dozens of blisters and broken nails. The ugliness the crowd would never see.

Gradually, surely, the tempo relaxed. Ako's drums quieted, settling into a series of sparsely placed beats. Her impish grin was all the confirmation Rinko needed.

Watching, trusting, Yukina's eyes stayed fixed on her, waiting for the cue. Her mouth was set in a taut line, her chest heaving visibly. Typical Yukina. They'd had to virtually drag her home by her hair once, and even then she'd refused to admit to being sick. Rinko held her gaze, trying to say through her eyes what she couldn't through words.

 _It's okay. We'll do it together, just like this. Please don't think about afterwards—only about this, here and now. Let's give them a show they'll never forget._

 _And . . . thank you._

She repeated the progression one last time and gave a hard nod, leading the band into the second verse with a fluid scalic run. But when Yukina started singing again, she didn't direct her focus back to the audience like Rinko expected. Detaching the microphone from its stand, she walked to the back of the stage, pulling up her skirts a little awkwardly to climb onto the raised platform and stand beside Rinko. Her voice had recovered its steadiness somewhat.

As if they'd discussed it before the performance—though they most certainly hadn't—the others left the backing vocals this time to Rinko alone.

 _I will_

 _Go ahead . . . go ahead . . ._ Rinko sang, a little shaky.

 _This is_

 _Destiny . . . destiny . . ._

Was Yukina up for another round of the chorus? She was holding herself together for now, but only barely, and Rinko could see her licking her lips and steeling herself for what would inevitably be more shouting and tearing at her vocal cords.

Did Rinko dare? Even as the question coalesced in her mind, another voice rose up in indignation. Did she _dare_? Had she dared to join Roselia, when the prospect of interacting with strangers terrified her? Had she dared to floor her competition with a tinkling, iridescent rendition of 'La Campanella'when her blood was running alternately hot and cold and her mouth was dry as a shrivelled leaf? What was this in comparison? Forget the packed hall. Forget the thousands of eyes on her. This was for Roselia, and Roselia alone. As easy as demonstrating a new tune in rehearsal.

She opened her mouth, took in a breath of the crackling, thundering air, sweet fuel to her lungs. It was hot, burning hot, her tight sleeves stuck fast to her skin with dampness. Her tears were gone. Above the deafening roar of the crowd, her voice soared, light and smooth, with none of Yukina's arresting power but a finespun, dulcet sweetness that anyone would be hard-pressed to match. Yukina's smile was as radiant as Rinko had ever seen it. Lowering her mic, she stepped back, a hand closing over Rinko's shoulder in silent support. The crowd erupted into molten pandemonium at the gesture, perhaps for all the wrong reasons, but Rinko thought she would miss even that.

 _I'll be by your side . . . I got you . . ._

The words couldn't have been truer. And if the almost imperceptible tightening of Yukina's hand was any indication, she understood every unspoken message that had passed between them.

 _Ah . . . on stage_

 _Only one, only one . . ._

Then it was done and Rinko handed the reins back to Yukina, who sang the bridge with a quivering tenderness and the keyboard underneath her all the way. The others joined in. Together they finished the song, all five of them, voices spiralling to the heavens in a cloud of stardust.

How she had managed to contain her shaking for the last few minutes Rinko didn't know, but now it hit her in full force from head to foot, and it was a good thing her bandmates had crowded around her, trying to embrace her all at once, because otherwise she thought she might trip over the edge of the platform and faceplant onto the stage below.

"What _was_ that?" Ako burst out. "That was the single coolest thing I've ever _seen_ and you pulled it right out of your—"

"Keep it clean, please," Sayo said into Yukina's mic, and the audience, still wiping away their tears, were quickly subjected to emotional whiplash.

"I was uh. Going to say 'void of chaos,'" Ako said.

"No you weren't, and those are effectively the same thing." The crowd shrieked with laughter.

"Argh! Lisa-nee, she's bullying me."

Sayo passed Lisa the mic, her mouth twitching.

"Uh," said Lisa with a nervous laugh. "Can I respectfully abstain from this discussion? But seriously, that was amazing, Rinko. Incredible." She sniffed, dabbing at her eyes with her sleeve.

Rinko smiled. "Thank you. I . . . didn't know I could do it, but . . . all of you made it work."

"Well," said Yukina. Her mic was still in Lisa's hands, and none of the audience heard her. "I always knew." Her smile was a little tentative, embarrassed, and she averted her eyes as she spoke. "That you were stronger than me."

Flicking her long hair over her shoulder, she strode downstage again.

They followed her lead, forming a line, each of them addressing the audience in turn. Rinko went last, after Ako. In the past she had written out exactly what she wanted to say on a little square of folded paper, but tonight she was empty-handed. She'd tried to put her thoughts into words, had scribbled them down and crossed them out, over and over. Nothing felt right. Maybe nothing would be.

When her turn came, she barely said anything at all. She had poured all of herself into the music, and if that wasn't enough, nothing could ever be. The single thought in her head was of the necessity of getting through the mundane expressions of gratitude without biting her tongue. Ako was there holding her hand all the way through it, and then it was over and they were heading into the wings.

They hadn't planned the encore. It had been too painful to think about. They trooped back onstage to tumultuous applause, and her bandmates looked at her, giving her the choice, all of them moving and feeling as one.

As one.

Always.

Her fingers caressed the keys she would never play on this stage, with these girls she loved so dearly again. "We'll . . . sing this one together. Our final song," she said. "'ONENESS.'"

Picture-perfect. At last.

 _Goodbye_ , she thought, and held out her hands to the wave that would carry her far away.

* * *

 **Da capo**

In another time and another place, a door clatters open.

"Good morning," the black-haired girl murmurs. She's clad in a freshly ironed uniform, and her eyes are the colour of spring violets.

"Rin-rin! Did you finish it? Please, _please_ tell me you finished it."

A breath escapes her in a soft chuckle. "I did my best."

"Udagawa-san, I'd appreciate some decorum in here."

"Aw, cut her some slack. We're all excited, aren't we? Yukina? Back me up here."

"Well, I do want to hear what Rinko has for us. Are you ready?"

With a pleased nod, she joins them, tucks herself behind the keyboard, the sensation of being at home settling snugly within her like the centre piece of a jigsaw puzzle, ironing out the chinks of tension in her limbs. She shakes her hair out, hitches up her sleeves, firing up her instrument with a few clicks and slides. Dusky eyes meet washed-out bronze. The mic stand cracks its joints.

A moment to breathe. The air smells of cherry blossoms.

"Take it away, Rinko."


End file.
